"And it was at that age... poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when, no, they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among raging fires or returning alone, there it was, without a face and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth had no way with names my eyes were blind. Something knocked in my soul, fever or forgotten wings, and I made my own way, deciphering that fire and I wrote the first faint line, faint, without substance, pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing; and suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened and open, planets, palpitating plantations, the darkness perforated, riddled with arrows, fire and flowers, the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, I felt myself a pure part of the abyss. I wheeled with the stars. My heart broke free on the open sky.